Chatterbox, 1906 Part 82

Little did they think, as the elders chatted and laughed, and the younger were gradually thawed into an animated talk, that a pair of eyes were riveted on the little girl--at first in amazement, then in settled purpose. Jack's strange instinct had not been altogether at fault. It is not on record what the owner of those eyes would have felt impelled to do if M. le Prefet and his son had not taken up their position close to the little English girl.

(_Continued on page 270._)

[Ill.u.s.tration: "M. Matou was bowing in front of her."]

[Ill.u.s.tration: "He sat silent, waiting for the reply."]

STORIES FROM AFRICA.

IX.--THE MAN WHO NEVER MADE A SACRIFICE.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Although the travellers' tales from Africa are so numerous and so interesting that the difficulty is not to find them, but to choose among them, there is one traveller who stands out head and shoulders above all the rest. And though his name be 'familiar in our mouths as household words,' we cannot speak of the heroes of Africa and leave it out. Yet, strange to say, though there is no life-story more enthralling than that of David Livingstone, it is less easy to find thrilling adventures in his account of his own travels than in the journals of most explorers.

For the man whose heroism has helped so many was never a hero in his own estimation. It is of his work, his beautiful surroundings, the poor people he sought to help, the crying evils of the slave-trade that he writes. He really meant what he said so simply in the Senate House at Cambridge, 'I never made a _sacrifice_.' To be permitted to do such work for his Master was, to him, reward enough. If it meant sickness, suffering, separation from those he loved, and death at last alone in the wilderness, these were just the incidents of no sacrifice, nothing to boast of or to magnify him in the eyes of his fellow-men. Yet, even from his own matter-of-fact account, we can see how, again and again, his cool courage saved his own life and the lives of the men who followed him.

During his great journey to the West Coast, Livingstone found himself in the village of the Chiboque tribe, where the chief sent to him a demand for tribute, in the form of a man, an ox, a gun, or some cloth or powder. All the fighting strength of the village surrounded the travellers--grim-looking warriors, whose naturally plain cast of countenance was not improved by the prevailing fas.h.i.+on of filing their teeth to a point. Livingstone overheard the sinister remark, 'They have only five guns,' as if the Chiboque chief were quite prepared to measure forces with the strangers. The Englishman knew his own followers to be loyal, and by no means disinclined for a fight, and they would, he believed, be a match for their a.s.sailants, but he was most anxious to avoid bloodshed, and not to risk his character as a messenger of peace.

Accordingly, he sat down coolly on his camp-stool, his gun across his knees, and graciously invited the very unpleasant-looking party to be seated also. The Chiboque, accordingly, squatted on the ground, thus giving Livingstone's men, who remained standing, spears in hand, the chance of first blow, if it were impossible to avoid a fight.

Fortunately, they were all well under control, and stood watching for a signal from their master, who quietly addressed the chief, bidding him state what he wanted.

A man, an ox, or a gun would do equally well, the Chiboque returned, but tribute he must have, as he always did from strangers.

The first-named was quite impossible, replied Livingstone, calmly; he and his followers would rather die than give one of their number to be a slave. Neither could they part with one of their guns; but he would give a s.h.i.+rt as a present to the chief, who had no right to demand any tribute at all from him. The chief was pleased to accept the s.h.i.+rt, but wanted something more, and Livingstone followed it up with a bunch of beads and a handkerchief. But seeing that each fresh treasure encouraged the enemy's desire to plunder the party, he resolved upon a bold stroke.

It was clear, he said, that the Chiboques had no wish to be his friends.

He and his men would fight if they were obliged, but the Chiboques, not they, should begin the attack and bear the guilt of it. Let them strike the first blow. Having delivered his challenge, he sat perfectly silent, waiting for the reply.

Should it come in the form of an attack, he knew that the first stroke would be directed at the white man, and he admits that the moments of suspense were, as he puts it, 'rather trying;' but he was 'careful not to appear flurried,' as he sat with his life in his hand, the centre of the wild group.

But the bold proposal succeeded. Perhaps the Chiboque measured the strength of the resolute party, and came to the conclusion that 'good words are better than bad strokes;' perhaps they felt the presence of a superior power in the quiet, watchful-eyed white man. When at last the chief spoke, it was to renew his demand for an ox. He would give in return any present that the stranger liked to name, and they could be friends. Livingstone, seeing approval in the eyes of his men, agreed, asking for some food, of which he and his party were short, and which the chief readily promised to supply. He and his warriors withdrew with their prize; and, later in the evening, a messenger arrived with the return present, a very little meal, and a few pounds of Livingstone's own ox, which had been converted into beef in the meantime!

How the cheery-hearted traveller, whose sense of humour helped him through so much, and whose laugh, Stanley tells us, was 'a laugh of the whole man, from head to heel,' must have chuckled over the generous gift of a bit of tough beast which he had brought so many miles along with him!

But though no stouter-hearted traveller ever pushed his way into the dark continent, we think less, after all, of Livingstone's heroic courage than of the burning love for all mankind which sent him into the waste places of the earth, to carry the truth to those in darkness. We think of the little orphan girl who hid behind his waggon that she might travel under his protection to seek her friends: of how he fed her, hid her from her pursuers, and vowed that, if fifty men came after her, they should not get her. And there is another story which we shall seek for in vain in his own account of his life in Africa, but which has been recorded by one who loved and honoured him.

The incident happened during those happiest days of Livingstone's African life, when, with his true-hearted wife beside him and children growing up around him, he lived in the house he had built for himself at Kolobeng. A very busy, simple life it was, with plenty of occupation to fill the days: teaching, gardening, building, doctoring, making careful observations of the plants and animals, and winning the love and confidence of the native people. One evening, news came to the little settlement of a furious attack made by a rhinoceros upon the driver of a waggon. The unfortunate man had been horribly gored; he was lying in the forest, eight or ten miles away; would the doctor come to him?

The request seemed almost beyond reason, for the night--the terrible night of Africa--was falling, and those words, 'when all the beasts of the forest do move,' have a very real meaning in that land. Ten miles'

ride through the dense undergrowth, which might hide every conceivable enemy, would scare the stoutest heart. But a fellow-creature was suffering in those horrible shades, and Livingstone was not the man to weigh the value of the poor native's life against his own. Promptly he went on his way at the call of duty, but, alas! only to find the man dead, and his companions gone, and so to ride back again by the same 'pa.s.sage perilous.'

Seven years after, Livingstone's worn-out body had been laid in its honoured grave in Westminster Abbey, where his countrymen crowded to do him honour, and the African, who had watched so faithfully over his remains, nearly threw himself into his loved master's grave. A man who was also to lay down his life for Africa, met a native of the Rovuma country wearing a part of an English coat. It had been given him, he said, by one who treated black men 'as if they were brothers,' and who knew his way to the hearts of men; and of all the honours paid to the name of Livingstone, none surely would have pleased him better than that memory, lingering among the dark brethren whose cause he had made his own.

MARY H. DEBENHAM.

TIME FLIES.

Tick! tick! tick! the seconds go, Flying, oh, so fast, And almost before I know Quite an hour is past: Hour by hour goes quickly on, Till another day is gone.

Day by day is going fast, Morning grows to night, Till they make a year at last Vanished out of sight.

Days, weeks, months, all sped away-- Yet they wait just day by day.

As the days and minutes go, Speeding one by one, So my childhood, youth, I know Will ere long be done: Books and toys all put away, Done with lessons, done with play.

Be it mine to use with care Time that will not stay, Doing always here or there Something good each day: For as streams to ocean flow, Youth is speeding fast, I know.

THE SELF-HEAL.

The Self-heal has had a very wide repute for its good-qualities. It belongs to the family of plants known as _l.a.b.i.ates_, which includes mint, sage, thyme, and other aromatic plants; these flowers mostly have a curious lip, and grow in a spike. The self-heal is not a tall plant, though it flourishes more in the rich soil of a garden than on that of the field-bank or the hedgerow. One curious thing about the plant is, that the flowers do not open all together, but a few at a time, so that it never looks in full bloom. These flowers are bright blue, with a touch of crimson at the edges, the leaves being round and smooth. It is the habit of the plant to throw out trailing shoots, so that when it spreads over corn-fields, it causes much trouble to the labourers who have to pull it up.

The name may seem a little singular. It does not mean the plant heals itself, but that it contains the power to cure or heal without having to be mixed up into a compound, with other articles added to help the effect. Self-heal was used both inwardly and outwardly; a decoction made from the plant was swallowed as a remedy, and it was applied to wounds and sores. Even now, in Ches.h.i.+re, Yorks.h.i.+re, and some other parts of England, the plant is said to heal wounds, and relieve sore throats, though it is seldom called by the old name. Ches.h.i.+re folk know it as Carpenter; it is not clear why the name of Sickle-flower is also given to it, unless it be that reapers use the plant for a wound made by a sickle; a very similar name is Hook-heal. Some people in the West of England call the plant the Fly-flower, though it has no particular likeness to a flower, nor does it draw flies or insects more than other plants. Yet another name is Irish; about Belfast it is known as 'Pinch and Heal.' The Dutch and Germans seem formerly to have called it Brunell or Prunel, which is nearly the same as the botanical name, _prunella_; both Dutch and Germans, as well as the French, in old books, rank it amongst the sovereign remedies for complaints.

APPLES OR THISTLES?

Every year, at Eynsford, in Kent, an 'Arbor Day' is kept, when a number of trees are planted in different parts of that pretty village.

'Arbor,' of course, is the Latin word for 'tree.' There are not many places in England which have an annual 'Tree Day.' It is an American inst.i.tution. An American settler in Nebraska, feeling sorry to see so few trees there, suggested that on a certain day of each year the children should devote themselves to tree-planting. This idea was acted upon, and the youngsters of Nebraska doubtless enjoyed the fun. The scheme succeeded so well that it was taken up by other States, and introduced later on into Australia, and others of our Colonies.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Here is a nice little bit of work for you, my lad.'"]

The pleasant custom of 'Arbor Day' was begun in Eynsford in 1897, and was initiated by Mr. C. D. Till, a local landowner. In that year the farmers and cottagers planted many apple-trees, and the children set a row of trees on a bank in front of their school.

The reliefs of Ladysmith, Kimberley, and Mafeking were commemorated by the planting of special trees in the village street, and in 1902 thirty trees were planted in memory of Queen Victoria.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'It is only the masterful calf.'"]

But on the first 'Arbor Day' which was kept in Eynsford, it was discovered that the planting of commemorative trees was by no means a new thing in the place. Sixty years before that day, in 1837, a cottager, named Howard, had planted an apple-tree in honour of the Queen's accession. In 1897, this tree yielded thirteen bushels of apples. The old man, upon being presented with a testimonial, made a little speech. 'If I hadn't planted that there tree,' he said, 'I should not have had all this here fruit.'

The story recalls another. A Scotch farmer's son amused himself one year during the summer vacation by sitting on a gate and blowing thistledown about. The natural consequence was a fine crop of thistles. When, the following summer, Master Thomas came home for the holidays, his father took him to the field. 'Here is a nice little bit of work for you, my lad,' said the farmer. 'Just pull up all these thistles for me.'

As Thomas bent over his wearisome and p.r.i.c.kly task, he said ruefully to himself, 'If I had not scattered that thistledown, I should not have had to do this!'

We are always sowing and planting something in our lives. What shall it be? Apples, or thistles?'